Fogmoon

10

Awakening in the north country in the chilly morning brought brilliant sun surrounded by dark stormy clouds.  The weather moved from sun to wind to rain to sleet in a constant random flow.  Cold, not quite wintery.  I stood in the sandy parking lot and watched the trees blow hard, the last few leaves twirling down from the bare tree tops.  When the clouds lift for a moment, I can see the mountains over towards Vermont.  Then they are gone in the squall.  Everything is unsettled.

After I’ve breakfasted and packed the car, I stand again in the parking lot in the sometimes rain, sometimes sleet.  Again the trees blow in the wind.  An overwhelming nostalgia rises climbing up from my belly, settling in my throat.  I look around and feel a huge sense of loss.  Tears well, and then run down my face in the cold.  Is this the last time I will stand in this place, take in these trees, this ground?  Is part of me saying “Goodbye?”  This is what November is about.

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 Nostalgia, complemented by melancholy. If I were depressed this would be the time to consider suicide.  A time to change dimensions and seek out warmer and more welcoming places.  But I’m not depressed today, so I roll and rock on the waves of sadness and wind, remembering that some pagan cultures call November “Fogmoon” and the month of the “Mourning Moon.”

My grandmother was born on the 15th in 1893.  She never celebrated her birthday, she so hated being reminded that it was in November.  Fogmooned Scopio, indeed.  My daughter was also born in November, on the cusp of Scorpio and Saggitarius.  I have always regretted, when I look at the November drear, that I could not have given her a more auspicious birthday.

The Grateful Dead’s rendition of Cold Rain and Snow (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmoPBe_frvM) must have been written about November.  No golden haired woman would hang around for this chilly, wet, raw, snowy time.  And the music rolls up and down and around like the wind in autumn in the mountains.  It must evoke some past sense of this dreary and foreboding month.

I am drawn to stand out in the challenging weather, to become drenched in the icy cold wet of the half-frozen rain, to bring the chill in around me heart and release myself to despair.  I soar on the sadness of the moment, and the unknown memory it represents.

By the time I reach the smokehouse at the bottom of the mountain the sun is out, the mountain is hidden in myst and the moment of melancholic nostalgia has passed, leaving an empty hole.

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